


let's hear it for the boy

by Kanoodle



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bondage, Canon-Typical Violence, Cunnilingus, F/M, Femdom, Light Bondage, Praise Kink, all the spicy tags are literally just for the end, dom!gamora, facesitting, in this house we love and respect peter quill, my bad you guys, sub!Peter Quill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-23
Updated: 2019-04-23
Packaged: 2020-01-24 11:38:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18570694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kanoodle/pseuds/Kanoodle
Summary: Peter doesn’t hear praise very often.When he was younger, his primary motivation was to not get his ass beat, to not get screamed at or walloped for his mistakes.  And considering the Ravagers were a bunch of pricks, kind, complimentary words were rarely tossed his way.OR, how peter quill and gamora learned about peter's praise kink: a tale in five parts





	let's hear it for the boy

**Author's Note:**

  * For [poprocks](https://archiveofourown.org/users/poprocks/gifts).



> a birthday gift for @poprocks, who asked for starmora smut over a month ago, and i am only just now delivering
> 
> ... and the smut is really only at the end. and holy crap, this fic ran away from me.
> 
> uh. happy birthday @poprocks??????

i.

Peter doesn’t hear praise very often.

When he was younger, his primary motivation was to not get his ass beat, to not get screamed at or walloped for his mistakes. And considering the Ravagers were a bunch of pricks, kind, complimentary words were rarely tossed his way.

And because of his upbringing, he learned to keep secrets, learned to lie, and most important of all, he learned how not to fuck up. He adhered to a strict code of _fake it till you make it._ Act tough, stand tall, smile in the face of danger, and the assholes trying to scare you off might think twice. These days, he’s grown into his role, and when he cracks a joke, when he stands with his hands on his hips so his guns are only a twitch away, folks tend to take him seriously.

So he doesn’t lack for confidence. He’s been accused on more than one occasion of having an over-inflated sense of self-worth, of being far too arrogant. And, if he’s honest, that’s true, sometimes.

And he doesn’t lack for a kindness, in general. The Guardians mean well, but they aren’t exactly a _vocal_ bunch – save for Drax, who tended to overshare, and Mantis, whose filter was underdeveloped. In general, he’s learned to read more closely into their actions, has learned that their little gestures carry far more weight than what they say. 

So it’s fine. It’s cool. He’s had thirty years to make do. 

It’s _fine._

 

ii.

Gamora flips him to the mat for the fourth time today.

He groans with frustration, dragging a hand down his face as he rolls back to his feet. He falls back into his ready position, fists up and dominant side tilted away from her – a boxer’s stance.

“I’ve definitely got it this time,” he says.

Gamora gaze travels him from head to toe – and he’s gotten used to that sort of scrutiny. She’s studying him, making sure he’s physically and mentally well enough for another round. She’s learned his measure, he thinks. She knows when to force a break if he’s wearing himself out or if his frustration is making him too sloppy. 

But apparently Gamora seems satisfied with what she sees, and she nods. She falls into her own defensive stance, all practiced, deadly elegance. She only offers a curt nod as a signal to begin.

(For a second, Peter is, like, weirdly turned on. He wonders if there’s any chance they can have a bit of fun, later in their sparring session.)

Peter makes the first move, as he usually does, and Gamora defends, effortlessly dodging each punch and kick. More than once, when he laid breathless on the mat, he had told her how much it felt like a dance, in a way. Her agility and grace. The back and forth, the way they moved in tandem to some private rhythm. She never said much whenever he offered up the comparisons, but her small, gentle smile told him she hardly minded them.

And it always happens like this: at some point, Gamora takes off the kid gloves and moves into his space. He can never quite figure out when she decides to take the offensive – sometimes it’s after only a couple of seconds into the fight, sometimes it’s long enough for Peter to wonder if he’s working himself into some sort of advantage. But there she goes, snapping into _attack mode_ , and it’s all Peter can do to block and twist and dodge out of the way of her strikes.

One of her hands latches around Peter’s wrist before he can slip away, the other grabs hold of his collar, and she steps into his space, one foot planted between both of his. Gamora whirls, throwing him off-balance, and—

Yep. There he goes again, launched over Gamora’s shoulder.

But something _clicks_ this time, and once she releases him, he twists his body. Rather than landing flat on his back as he had almost every other time, he manages to turn himself to land on his feet. Momentum sends him skidding along the mats, but he digs in one heel to slow himself. When he finally comes to a stop, half-crouched and both arms thrown out to maintain his balance, he barks out a laugh.

“Holy shit,” he says, relief and pride making his voice bright. “I fucking did it.”

Peter looks up to Gamora, a slightly dazed smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, and he’s surprised to see her wearing a similar expression. She approaches, offering him a hand up. 

She says, “Well done.”

... which, like, almost never happens.

... and frankly, it’s kind of stupid how much those two words startle him. Gamora tended to be stingy with her praise, and for good reason. An actual, genuine compliment from her is a shock, to the say the least. His face feels warm, his chest tightens, and he clears his throat a little awkwardly. When he hauls himself up with Gamora’s help, he keeps his head ducked. 

“Yeah, well,” he murmurs, “it only took me fifty tries to get it right.”

She looks at him funny, after that, but he can’t tell what that look means. 

 

iii.

The Guardians of the Galaxy and decorum mix about as well as fire and water, but somehow, they still find themselves roped into attending a gala. The cover story is that the host, Varakai M’ral, had invited the Guardians to his birthday celebration as novelties, like they were some sort of living, breathing conversation starter. The reality is that they’re supposed to be playing security, their weapons tucked away beneath finery, after M’ral received more than a few worrying death threats.

“I hate dressing up,” Peter had told Gamora back at the ship. “It makes me feel all weird and stuffy and fake. Like, should I talk about important junk, like the economic crisis on Ecliptis, or the recent embargos instated on Redoxian?”

“Do you know anything about either of those things?” she had asked skeptically.

“God, no.”

Like the other Guardians, wearing expensive clothing and mingling with the rich and famous was hardly Gamora’s idea of a good time, rife as these occasions were with arrogance and elitism. She was forced to attend a few events like this, generally as some representative on Thanos’ behalf to cement some alliance or other, or in order to track a mark, but she was careful not to reveal her discomfort.

In the gala proper, Gamora scans the crowd with a critical eye, but her face is a cool mask – a skill she learned to cultivate in her lifetime as an assassin. She taps into that knowledge now, trying to discern any questionable activity, trying to identify any guests who appear more nervous than they should. 

So far, the only questionable activity she has noticed is Peter, who stands beside her, adjusting his jacket for what appears to be the twentieth time. Oddly out of character for him, considering had made a life on lying; out of all of them, Peter was the best at acting natural, at lying through a smile.

She watches him more carefully, this time, and she notices the way he runs a hand along his jacket’s front, focusing on where Gamora knows the inside pockets are sewn. His blasters are back on the ship. They had been told to arrive with no visible weaponry to allay suspicion, and Peter was forced to satisfy himself with only a few of his smaller gadgets. As they departed for the party, Peter had been reluctant to leave his guns behind.

“Stop fidgeting,” Gamora murmurs, pressing a hand to his upper arm. As an afterthought, to help cement their cover, she adds, “You look fine.”

(He _does_ look good in that tailored suit, she thinks. She hasn’t told him as much, though; large as his ego is, he hardly needs the praise.

Peter had been far more effusive of his praise of her attire – more specifically, he had gawked and croaked, “Holy fucking shit.”

And later, when he found his voice again, he had asked, “Why can’t we just have our own private party?”

At the time, she had shaken her head, had let out a practiced sigh. But as she passed by him to exit their shared room, she had flashed him a small, knowing smile that promised, _Later._ )

Peter cuts her a slightly skeptical look, but he exhales through his lips, forcing the tension from his body. “I’m not fidgeting,” he murmurs back.

“Yes, you are,” Gamora says, and she pauses to lift two flutes of sparkling wine from the tray of a passing waiter. She hands the extra to Peter and brings her own glass up to conceal her lips when she says, “You’re nervous.”

“I’m not nervous,” he replies. Peter gulps down a mouthful from his glass. She looks at him askance, quirking one of her silver eyebrows at him as if to ask, _Are you sure?_

“You keep adjusting your jacket,” she says softly. She delicately tips the glass against her lips, mimicking the motion of drinking without actually imbibing anything. “You keep checking your weapons.”

Peter wrinkles his nose, gritting his teeth, before he tries for an air of nonchalance once again. “I’m just feeling out of my element, is all.”

Gamora watches him from the corner of her eye, most of her attention aimed toward the rest of the ballroom. She tells him, “We’ll be fine.”

“Maybe _you’ll_ be fine,” he grumbles, though he’s careful to leave a bright lilt in his voice to convey he’s being facetious. It’s a tone he adopts often, Gamora’s noticed; it’s an attempt to conceal half-truths behind sarcasm. Anyone else might think it a joke, but Gamora knows better by now. “ _I_ would feel a whole lot better if I had a gun.”

She pauses before turning toward him, eyes narrowed and lips pressed together. “You don’t need a gun.”

“Well, not _now_ , obviously, but if shit goes south—”

“That’s what I mean,” she says patiently. “You don’t need a gun.”

Peter snorts out a laugh, and Gamora can practically see the gears turning in his head as he works to churn out some attempt at a joke. Before he can make light of his self-deprecation, she cuts him a sharp look, and he thankfully takes that as a sign to swallow down his words.

Peter Quill is an odd man. It was an opinion, at first, when they were forced to share space on the _Milano_ , traveling to meet with the Collector on Knowhere. Now, after months and months of spending time together, and even now that they were “an item,” as Peter liked to put it, Gamora has learned that her opinion was not an opinion at all. It is a cold hard fact.

Peter Quill is _odd._

He is a man of contradictions. He understands the value of teamwork, but he so rarely asks for help. He is terribly irresponsible, yet in the heat of battle, his focus and determination has guided the Guardians out of the jaws of defeat more than a few times. He’s confident to the point of arrogance, and yet there are moments like these, when that tiny bit of self-doubt shines through like a beacon.

“You are more capable than you give yourself credit for, Peter,” she says, still patient but not unkind. “Trust yourself more.”

Peter turns toward her. She sees the confusion on his face, mixed with genuine suspicion – like he suspects this might be a joke at his expense, or like he expects her to temper the compliment with some caveat or qualifier. On another day, Gamora might have done just that – there are absolutely instances where his pride could stand a bit of whittling – but not right now. Not when she can see how exposed and vulnerable he already feels.

“We’ll be fine,” she repeats. She reaches up, the backs of her knuckles briefly running along the line of his jaw, feather-light, and she’s slightly gratified when she sees the way his eyes ever so slightly dilate. “ _You_ will be fine.”

Peter swallows down his disagreements, and Gamora is grateful that he takes her seriously, that he doesn’t try to disparage her sincerity with an ill-timed joke. She sees the way he struggles for a response, but at length, he only manages to nod. When she smiles in approval, trails her fingertips down the side of his neck, she sees the way his breath hitches, ever so slightly.

They heave out identical sighs when the skylight above the dance floor shatters, and four men rappel down into the ballroom, demanding compliance. 

“Back to work,” Peter grumbles, reaching into his jacket.

 

iv.

“This was supposed to be our day off,” Peter grits out for the fifth time. His voice sounds harsh and loud within the confines of his mask. He flinches when a plasma blast slams against his cover, his arm flying up to shield his face from the splinters of wood that fly past.

“You keep saying that.” Gamora grunts in frustration, popping out of her own cover to return fire. Circumstances being what they are, she’s borrowing one of his blasters. He hears the distant thump of a body hitting the floor before she ducks back down. “They aren’t going to stop trying to kill us just because you say it enough times.”

Peter scowls to himself, waiting for his blaster to cool. This was _supposed_ to be a date, he repeats silently, because he knows if he says it aloud – _again_ – Gamora will probably kick him. It was supposed to feel _normal_. He was supposed to get her flowers and pay for a fancy meal with fancy wine and a fancy dessert. With all the steps they’ve been taking with each other, with all the progress they’ve made together, with how much they actually literally love each other (and will the thought of that ever stop making his heart skip a beat?), they’ve never had a chance to just be a couple. Today, apparently, still isn’t that day.

The Guardians of the Galaxy are starting to make a name for themselves, which is both gratifying and daunting. Nice, because it means they’re getting more steady work. Crappy, because Peter isn’t sure they’ll ever be able to live up to their auspicious name. These days, they aren’t accused of being thugs, of being wolves in sheep’s clothing, and there’s a growing contingent of folks who are starting to see them as honest-to-god good guys.

But there are also those who see them as threats.

The Guardians of the Galaxy are also victims of circumstance and coincidence. They never sought each other out, and definitely never sought out to be heroes, but life had still shrugged and said to itself, “Hey, let’s see where this goes.” And today, life had thrown them in the path of a Sovereign envoy which was apparently slumming it away from their home planet. 

So they can add inciting a political incident to today’s rap list, Peter guesses.

One of the Sovereign guards blasts another chunk out of Peter’s cover – little more than an overturned table that was proving to be surprisingly sturdy, all things considered – and Peter can feel the heat of the plasma as it flies past. He curses under his breath. Thankfully, most of the other customers and wait staff had vacated the place when shots started firing, which leaves Peter and Gamora with about eight assholes with giant chips in their shoulders. 

“This isn’t working,” Gamora barks. Her own cover is being similarly whittled down, and she growls as she’s forced to shift to one side.

“I can kinda see that, yeah,” Peter shouts back. He peers out from behind his table and shoots a guard down. Seven assholes left.

He casts around the room, to the scattered and shattered dishware, to the overturned furniture. There’s not a whole lot to work with, he thinks, unless he wants to treat the Sovereign to a meal of steaks and salads recovered from the floor. This _was_ a nice place before the Sovereign wrecked it. The owner was something of a Guardians of the Galaxy fanboy, who liked to give them discounts whenever they came by – which was nice, because the place was fancy as hell, was decorated like it was something straight out of a James Bond movie, and was almost certainly out of their usual price range. After this, they can probably kiss those discounts goodbye.

He groans, irritated by the lack of anything useful, throwing his head back to sigh at the ceiling.

... which is when he catches sight of the giant chandelier, hovering, white and bright and resplendent, right over their assailants.

“I’ve got an idea,” he says, and he digs through his pockets, tossing his second gun to Gamora. “Cover me.”

Gamora follows his gaze up to the ceiling, apparently catching his intention, but the puzzled look she cuts him tells him she has no idea how he intends to get from point A to point B. And in fairness to her, he’s not entirely sure how he plans on pulling this off. Peter’s just sort of winging it, but, well, when doesn’t he?

He finds what he’s looking for – two of his gravity mines, tucked away in his jacket. (He’s gotten into the habit of keeping his gadgets on him, which is potentially dangerous for him if they accidentally discharged, but whatever.) He pries off one of the back panels, concentrating on his work. He listens to Gamora return fire on the Sovereign, listens to her curse, listens to the remaining Sovereign guards’ calls to accept defeat and surrender.

“Your deaths will be quick and painless,” one of them promises, which is the complete opposite of persuasive. 

“Peter,” Gamora calls in warning. “Hurry.”

“I’m _trying_ —”

He snaps the panel shut, switching to the second gravity mine. It goes faster this time, now that he has a reasonable idea of what he’s doing.

“ _Peter._ ”

Gamora cries out in surprise when a blast flies past her cheek, though she twists out of the way. She ducks back down behind cover to regroup.

He slams the panel shut on the gravity mine. _God_ , he hopes this will work. He quickly gestures for Gamora to return his guns, which she does without hesitation, and he snaps the gravity mines to the lower barrels of his blasters.

“Surrender, Guardians!” one of the Sovereign shout. “We will not be merciful much long—”

Peter pops up out of cover, aiming his guns at the ceiling. He fires off both mines, and when they latch into the ceiling, they belch out a bluish pulse. The chandelier judders as Peter ducks back behind the broken tables, and Gamora, yanks him toward her, folding over him to protect him with her body.

There’s a beat of awkward silence, and Peter wonders if his plan backfired. Fuck, that’s embarrassing. One of the Sovereign barks out a laugh, but he’s drowned out by cries of alarm, and—

The _squelch_ of the Sovereign’s bodies is drowned out by the cacophony of the chandelier shattering. The floor shudders with the impact, and bent metal and broken glass slam against their cover. Quiet settles over the room, save for the clink of glass and whine of metal scattering across cracked tile. They wait for a handful of heartbeats before Gamora finally loosens her hold. They slowly stand. Peter feels slightly unsteady, thanks to the burst of adrenaline that had hit him, and they survey the carnage.

... admittedly, it’s not pretty.

Peter lets out a relieved breath, turning to Gamora. She received more than a few cuts, scrapes, and burns on her bare arms, and he winces a little, reaching for her. When she notices his concern, she shakes her head.

“I’m fine,” she tells him, catching his hand. “It’s superficial damage. It will heal.”

She turns back to the fallen chandelier, her hand still curled around his.

“You reversed the polarity on your mines?” she asks.

“Yeah.” His gaze flicks up to the mines still stuck to the ceiling. He’s... probably not getting those back, now that he’s thinking about it, but it was worth the sacrifice of two mines to not be _dead._

Gamora is quiet for a second, but at length, she squeezes his hand. 

“That was a good idea,” she says, the words deliberate and slow, like she’s a jeweler, carefully selecting precious gems.

Slowly, Peter turns to stare at her, stunned. Heat rushes up his neck, and his mind goes blank. Somehow, though, after a few heartbeats, he manages to croak out a dazed, “Thanks.”

Apparently that was the magic word, because Gamora turns to him, wearing that soft almost-smile that she seems to reserve just for him. She curls one hand around the lapel of his jacket, and after a gentle tug, he leans down far enough for Gamora to press a kiss to the brow of his mask.

 

v.

The job was terrible. There’s little to temper that fact.

Everything that could have gone wrong _did._ They had received a dossier on the assignment, but it might as well have been about another job entirely for as accurate as the information was. They faced far more resistance than they expected; the layout of the compound was nothing like the building plans they had been provided; and the mercenaries had been far more skilled than the ragtag band of bullies the Guardians had been told to expect.

There were too many all at once; too many variables to balance. While the Guardians generally made their livelihoods on improvisation, they reached a point in today’s assignment where the risk was far greater than any possible reward.

It’s why Peter had called an end to it only a third of the way into their planned assault. He signaled the retreat, and while there was a bit of pushback from the more bloodthirsty of the Guardians, they eventually relented and escaped back to the ship. For their efforts, Drax received a few ugly burns; Rocket had twisted his ankle; and Mantis was sporting an ugly bruise along her temple and had to be carried back to the ship.

Afterward, Gamora and Peter returned to their client, though Peter had done most of the talking – or, more accurately, he had received a large portion of their client’s displeasure. Their client, Marnnel Parloy, made their vast disappointment all too clear as they screamed at Peter, who had weathered it with a surprising amount of patience. Parloy berated the Guardians, had accused them of incompetence and weakness, and Gamora had gritted her teeth, hands clenching into fists. Peter was doing much the same, though when she searched his face, she was surprised to find something akin to _guilt_ in his eyes.

Parloy had leaned in, their face mere centimeters from Peter’s, had shouted, “I should have known you would fail. What else could I expect from a team of thugs led by an idiotic, primitive Terran—”

And Gamora had heard enough. She snatched up Parloy’s wrist and spun them to slam them face first into their desk. She twisted their arm up behind their back, grabbing hold of the back of their head to press their cheek firmly into the desktop.

“You do _not_ speak to him like that,” she had snarled.

In the end, Parloy only gave them half their payment – largely in deference to the rage in Gamora’s eyes – and she and Peter returned to the ship in absolute silence. 

 

And here they are now, moving through the quiet corridors of the _Quadrant_. Peter trails after Gamora, and she still feels her blood boiling at the way Parloy had treated them. She wants nothing more than to return to that office and tear the tongue from their mouth and feed it to them. 

They step into their shared quarters, and Gamora turns to him, expectant. After terrible jobs like these, Peter tended to have a great deal to say, needed an outlet to vent his frustrations. Generally, it devolved into insulting their clients or their opponents in the most vulgar ways possible, which typically made Gamora roll her eyes. 

For once, however, she feels that she might agree with everything he says.

But Peter stays silent. He locks the door behind them, far too intent on his task, and Gamora frowns.

“Peter,” she says, and he sighs, turning toward her.

In an instant, he crosses the space between them, one hand cupping the line of her jaw, the other curling around to the small of her back, pulling her against him. He slots his lips over hers, kissing her fiercely, hungrily, channeling pent-up frustration and anger. It’s _challenging_ , it’s confrontational, and it’s demanding a reaction.

They’ve danced this dance before, and Gamora knows the steps by heart.

She grabs hold of both of his wrists and shoves, pinning him to the door. Peter’s breath hitches, and from this close, she can see his pupils dilate ever so slightly.

It makes some feral creature in her chest hum with satisfaction. There was a point in their relationship when she had been afraid of her own reaction, when she had feared what it meant or what she might do because of it. Now, though, she knows how to control it, and she knows that Peter _enjoys_ it. It had been his idea to start using pass phrases. “Safewords,” he had called them, tailored after an old childhood game he used to play on Earth. Special calls and responses to offer each other when they needed to check in with one another, when they needed to slow down, or when they needed to stop. Having those words in place had assuaged many of her fears of overstepping his boundaries.

And now, Gamora has come to embrace the sensation, knowing what it means, knowing how to keep it tamed. And she understands it now: a bittersweet mix of possessiveness and affection. Something that purrs, _Mine. All mine._

But there’s something off tonight, Gamora thinks, and she pauses, studying him, much as she does during their sparring sessions. Assessing him. He twists his wrists, which is normal, but when she tightens her grip in warning, demanding stillness, he struggles more instead of taking the hint.

Which _isn’t_ normal.

“Peter,” she says, her voice hard. His jaw clenches, but he isn’t deterred. It’s in that moment that she notices something sharp in his gaze, an odd sort of desperation. She realizes Peter isn’t actually trying to free himself at all; he’s actively goading her into using her superior strength against him.

The dark thing purrs in her chest in approval, but she frowns, eyes narrowing.

“What color are you, Peter?”

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and she sees the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat.

“Green,” he croaks out. “I’m fine.”

“What color will you say if we need to slow down?”

“Yellow.”

“And if we need to stop?”

“Red light,” he says. He swallows before adding defensively, “I’m _fine._ ”

She can tell he isn’t, though. Not really. She can sense the agitation rolling off of him in waves, something sharp and desperate, but not in his usual ways. Usually, Peter puts up a small fight, but after a few stern words from Gamora, he calms, turns pliant like soft clay. Tonight, though, he’s fighting her, and even with his wrists still trapped under Gamora’s hands, he leans forward, trying to capture her lips again.

She pulls back, just out of his reach, and he lets out a small, annoyed noise.

“Gamora,” he says, exasperated. “Are we doing this or not?”

She tilts her head to one side, and while she says nothing, Gamora knows Peter can sense the warning in her expression, the reminder that _she_ is in charge. That finally quells him, and he swallows, settling back against the door.

Gamora takes a deep breath before stepping back and freeing him. Dismay flashes across his face, but before he can argue, she says, “Take off your clothes and wait for me on the bed.”

He lets out a relieved breath before quickly moving to comply. She moves away, stripping her coat and leaving it on the back of a nearby chair. Her mind races as she walks to a small, discreet cabinet with biometric locks coded to her handprint and Peter’s. Considering what it contained, the last thing either of them needed was a well-meaning teammate rifling through their belongings and finding their sex toys.

Her relationship with Peter had been an adventure in and of itself. But his willingness to go along with her experimentation and curiosity had been a different adventure altogether.

It’s clear enough that Peter desires a distraction, and, well, sex tended to be an excellent distraction for him. He was easily silenced or calmed with a heated kiss, and a few light caresses along his thigh drew his attention to her instantly. He responded so _well_ , so eagerly, that it was intoxicating.

Tonight, however, Gamora feels something nagging at the back of her mind. She had learned early in her training to trust her instincts, and right now, her instincts are telling her, _Tread lightly._

She rests her palm on the door of the safe, and it beeps brightly as it unlocks. After a quick glance, she sees Peter watching her expectantly, naked and waiting on the edge of the bed. His cock is swollen already, curving up toward his stomach. His hands are curled into fists, resting on his lap, but he makes no move to touch himself.

_Good,_ that dark thing purrs. _All mine._

Gamora takes her time opening the cabinet door and scanning through its contents. It almost feels a little ridiculous, like she’s making a small production of it, but Peter’s attention is firmly captured. It also gives her time to think and come up with a strategy. Peter didn’t normally resist her like this, and that alone was concerning. He clearly needed some sort of outlet, however, and she can provide that, she thinks. She could be in control for both of them. 

She settles on something simple and retrieves a skein of deep red rope. She takes her time moving to the bed, and Peter’s gaze stays on her the entire time, like he’s hypnotized by the sway of her hips.

“Color?” she asks, as she kicks off her boots. She makes the choice to leave the rest of her clothing on.

“Green.”

Gamora presses a hand to his chest, encouraging him to move to the center of the bed. He moves without hesitation, folding his legs underneath himself in the way she usually likes, and that dark, growling thing in her chest is called to attention. _Good_ , she thinks again. “What will you say if we need to slow down?”

“Yellow.”

She unfurls the rope, and with her heightened senses, she hears the quiet hitch of his breath as he watches it slip through her hands. “And if we need to stop?”

“Red light.”

That feral sensation uncurls in her chest, stretching out, and before she can stop herself, she purrs, “Good.”

He tears his gaze away from the rope to stare at her, clearly startled, and a flush darkens his cheeks. He quickly ducks his head, almost embarrassed.

_Ah_ , she thinks, head tilting as she considers him, her silver eyebrow quirking upward. This might call for a small readjustment in her strategy.

“You will do as I tell you,” she says. “And only as I tell you. Are we agreed?”

“Yeah,” he breathes out, eyes dark when he finally looks up at her again. “Yes.”

“I mean it,” she insists. “You will do exactly as I say.”

Peter’s eyes narrow as he frowns at her. He’s weighing the odds that it’s a bluff, she knows. He’s trying to decide in this moment how much he might be able to get away with, how much “wriggle-room” she’ll allow him, as he liked to call it.

Thankfully, he seems to understand that she is being entirely serious, and he reluctantly nods. She nods in return.

“Give me your hands,” she commands, and she moves to kneel behind him.

He complies, and she moves his arms where she wants them. She folds them behind his back, one of his hands resting against the crook of his opposite arm, the other cupping his opposite elbow. She winds the rope around his forearms, trapping them together. They’ve done this enough times that she’s memorized the motions, could manage this in a matter of minutes. Tonight, Gamora is deliberately taking her time. Peter is horribly impatient at the best of times, and even now she can sense his patience fraying with each slow loop.

“Gamora,” he sighs out, exasperated again.

She ignores him, though, and once she’s wound the rope around his forearms to her liking, she ties a knot and draws the rope up his back, over his shoulder. She deliberately presses herself against the line of his shoulders as she pulls the rope diagonally down his chest, wrapping it around his torso. He leans back against her, and she knows it’s an involuntary motion. He craves touch, craves warmth, and he tilts his face toward hers as she leans over his shoulder. It’s sweet, she thinks as he nuzzles against her, and the dampness of his breath gusts along her cheek. Her free hand curls under his chin before her grip tightens, forcing him to face forward.

“I didn’t say you could move,” she tells him, squeezing his jaw in warning before releasing him.

She moves even more slowly after that, letting the soft rope drag over his skin. She creates an intricate design over his body with clever knots and loops, trapping his arms against his torso. All these knots are redundant, she admits, but there’s a great deal to be said for drawing this out, for how amazing Peter always looks when she finishes with him.

His breathing grows more ragged and uneven with each pass of the rope, and she can see how his heart hammers against his ribs. His cock twitches, and judging by his involuntary, restless shifting and the quiet noises that nearly escape him on every other breath, she knows he must be _aching._ Even so, he tries to keep still for her, tries to make it as easy as possible for her to maneuver around him.

“Good,” she whispers into his ear. “You’re doing so good, Peter.” 

His cock throbs with the praise, and that quiet whimper finally breaks free.

She finishes tying off the rope, and she moves around to kneel in front of him, admiring her work. The red rope, formed into diamonds across his torso, stands out against his flushed skin, and his chest heaves with his ragged breaths. When she cups his jaw, forces him to look up at her, his green eyes are so beautifully dark that the feral thing in her chest growls with approval. 

“Look at you,” she hears herself saying. She cards the fingers of her free hand through his unruly hair, the blunt tips of her nails dragging over his scalp, and he sighs. “Beautiful.”

Peter stops breathing for a second, his cheeks growing darker.

Gamora pauses, filing this moment away, and she runs her hands down his restrained arms.

“Stay still for me,” she commands, and he nearly nods in response. Instead, he catches himself, and rather than answer, he just waits, watching her.

She continues to touch him, feeling his warm, bare skin under her palms, skimming over the knots and lines of rope. Gamora traces his body like it’s completely new to her, like she _hasn’t_ done this countless times before. He struggles to keep himself in check, but when her palms run over his chest, Peter leans up into her touch – a movement so subtle that Gamora is sure he isn’t aware he’s done it; she decides not to fault him for it. She feels his heart hammering against his sternum. Her hands shift southward, over the muscles of his stomach, to the crook of his hip, and when her palms slide over his thighs, thumbs drawing tantalizingly close to his swollen cock, he lets out a pleading noise.

She teases him like that for a long while, just _feeling_ him, just touching him, exploring every inch of his body that she can reach with her hands – except, quite noticeably, his dick. Heat coils through her, wild and hungry, gathering between her legs. And when she replaces her fingers with her lips, tracing the contours of his muscles with her tongue and tasting the salt on his skin, he groans. His arms strain against his bonds, but Gamora is confident he has no chance of freeing himself. Not without her assistance, at any rate.

“Color?” she asks, her lips brushing against his pulse point just beneath the hinge of his jaw. Her fingers tangle into his hair at the nape of his neck, and he ever so slightly tilts his head away, exposing his throat to her.

It takes him a few heartbeats to wet his mouth enough to answer, “Green. Really— really fucking green. _Gamora—_ ”

She interrupts his plea by capturing his mouth with hers, and he moans into the kiss, melting into it eagerly. This far along, he’s sloppy. A little too much tongue, unmindful of his teeth, in that unthinking way that Gamora has come to adore. He lacks his usual finesse, boiled down to pure greed and want, and she hums with approval, smiling against his lips.

“You should see yourself,” she says, still close enough that their lips brush, that they share heated, damp breaths. “You should _hear_ yourself. You’re so perfect like this, Peter. You’re doing so good.”

His response this time is almost visceral. He moans against her mouth, his cock jerking and muscles flexing as he tries to keep his hips from bucking, and Gamora feels heat twist low in her gut. The dampness between her legs draws her attention, and she decides her needs should be taken care of.

She shoves him down onto the bed, and he lets out a small, startled noise, though it ends quickly when she straddles his stomach. Reaching for the zipper of her vest, she slowly strips off her top, feeling his eyes on her the entire time. Once her top is tossed away to the floor, she plants her palm against his sternum, feeling his racing heart, holding him down. He looks up at her with open wonder, with adoration that makes her chest clench. His gaze traces her breasts, the curve of her body. In the past the way people had stared at her had made her feel like an object to be admired. Somehow, Peter seems to _see_ her, imperfections and all, and he loves her, all the same.

She shifts to peel off her leggings, holding his gaze. It’s obvious what he assumes will happen next with the way his gaze darts down to her pussy, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips. For a few moments, Gamora entertains that fantasy, carding her fingers through his hair, tracing his lips. But instead of indulging him, instead of moving to straddle his face as he surely expects and wants, she remains where she is, legs wrapped around his middle – away from his throbbing cock and eager tongue.

She slowly rocks herself over his stomach, finding one of the rope knots tied just beneath his sternum. She sighs with relief as she grinds her clit against the knot, her hands pressing Peter’s shoulders down against the bed. When he realizes what she’s doing, Peter lets out a dismayed whine, struggling against the ropes again.

“Gamora,” he breathes out, desperate. “ _Please—_ ”

Her nails dig into his shoulders. She growls, “Hold still. Don’t move, unless I tell you.”

He gulps down a breath, then another, but he manages to comply. Gamora can see the way his eyes are starting to glaze over – that familiar signal that his mind is drifting into some odd space, like he’s fallen into a trance. It had worried Gamora, the first time she witnessed it, but when he had come out of it, he had assured her he was fine, had tentatively admitted that he enjoyed it.

(“It’s kind of like... floating. Like being drunk or high,” he had said, when he tried to explain how it felt. “I swear it’s a lot nicer than I’m making it sound.”)

She smiles at him, cupping his jaw, and says, “Good boy.”

And Peter sighs, sinking away into that headspace entirely.

She rocks herself against his stomach again, her clit grinding against that knot, and she groans quietly. His muscles strain beneath her as he tries to keep as still as possible, as he tries to keep himself from rutting uselessly at the open air. Peter watches her, practically without blinking, nearly without _breathing_ , like he worries he might miss a single second.

“Good,” she gasps out, and she can feel golden heat gathering low in her stomach, thighs clenching against his tense arms. “You’re doing so good, Peter. You’re working so hard to be good for me, so perfect for me.”

Peter bites down on the pleased groan that tries to escape him. 

“Look at you,” she pants out, rolling her hips against him, faster and harder with each pass. She’s so _close._ “Gorgeous. Perfect. Do you want to help me finish?”

He nods eagerly, wetting his lips again, and with as enthusiastic as that response is, Gamora feels no need to deny him. She crawls up along his body, straddling his face, steadying herself with one hand on the headboard. Her other hand tangles in his hair, and Peter cranes up to lick her folds, but manages to stop himself. His dark, glazed eyes find hers, waiting for her direction.

She _smiles._

“Good boy,” she says, and he inhales sharply. “Just your mouth. Go ahead.”

Predictably, Peter needs no further instruction after that. His mouth finds her sex, lips pressing against her folds, tongue tracing her to circle her clit. His beard tickles against the insides of her thighs. Gamora moans, rocking against his eager mouth, and she cups the back of his head, holding him against her. Not that he needs the assistance, and his clever tongue quickly brings her back to the brink.

“Peter,” she moans, curling over him. She grinds herself against Peter’s mouth, both hands tangling into Peter’s hair to hold him in place, to let her use his mouth and eager tongue as she needs. He groans deeply against her, the sound dragged from somewhere deep within his chest, and she feels the vibrations against her pussy. “Just like that. That’s perfect. _Yes_ , just like—” 

She comes with a groan, thighs tightening around his head. She rocks against him, riding out each delicious, fading wave. When those waves recede, she slumps with a sigh, carefully shuffling back to free Peter’s head, even as he kisses along the inside of her legs. Gamora smoothes her fingers back through Peter’s hair, easing his head back down to the pillow.

“Perfect,” she sighs again, once she’s straddling his middle. “You’re so good for me, Peter.”

He whimpers softly, and she brushes his sweat-damp curls away from his forehead.

Once she’s caught her breath, she leans down to kiss him, tasting herself on his tongue – something tangy, almost a little spicy. His groan is trapped between their lips, and she feels the way his body trembles. Peter is riding that fine line between tension and exhaustion, between desperate need and the need to remain obedient. She hasn’t yet freed him from that last command, and when she realizes how much he’s struggling to hold himself still, that dark sensation in her chest unfurls. He mumbles something, but the words are indistinct, shapeless.

“Do you want to stop?” she asks gently. When he’s in that odd mindset, she knows how difficult it is for him to form words, and she’s learned to hold herself back a little, to watch him carefully. He quickly shakes his head. 

“Do you want to slow down?” And as she predicts, the shake of his head this time is even more frantic.

She hums quietly, leaning down and pressing her lips against the shell of his ear. She whispers, “Do you want to come?”

Peter’s whole body goes tense, and a strained, pleading noise escapes from the back of his throat.

Letting out another quiet hum, she ghosts her fingertips down his chest, tilting her head and feigning a thoughtful look. She lets the moment drag on, drinking in the sight of his silent pleading, before she slowly nods.

“All right,” she says, and Peter lets out a relieved sob. “You did well for me. I think you deserve it.”

She moves down his body, and he spreads his legs for her. For a few moments, Gamora is content to watch the way his muscles flex and strain, the way he stares at her, biting down on his lips to cage in the whine that wants to claw out of him. She holds his gaze as she settles between his legs, running her palms over his tense thighs, and without looking away from him, she curls her fingers around his cock.

His groan is trapped behind his teeth, and he throws his head back, still struggling to hold himself still, as she had commanded. His chest heaves with his harsh breaths as she strokes him, long and slow.

“Look at you, so perfect,” she breathes out again, making no attempt to disguise the heat or the affection in her voice, and his cock throbs in her hand. “Go ahead, Peter. Show me how much you want it.”

His moan is a thing of beauty, once she gives him permission to move again, and he bucks himself into her hand, urgent and desperate. She strokes him harder, faster, and Peter moves with her, hips rocking with her rhythm, following her lead rather than trying to set the pace.

“Good boy,” she says, before gripping his hips and shoving him down to the bed. He _whines_ as she holds him down, a look of alarm flashing across his face. 

But Gamora smiles at him, holding his gaze as she sinks down to take his cock into her mouth.

It takes almost no time at all – not with how long and how deliberately she’s teased him. She relaxes her throat, swallowing him down, and he bucks into her mouth, groaning wordlessly, chanting indistinct swears. He’s still lost to that fog, but he manages to let out a warning, little more than an urgent whine, and Gamora hums around his cock in encouragement. Not a breath later, he comes, spilling down her throat, and she strokes him through it, swallowing each salty burst.

When he collapses back against the bed, she licks his cock clean, smirking a little with the way his hips twitch with discomfort. Gamora sits up, running her hands along his legs, his hips, in slow, soothing sweeps. She watches as he gasps for breath, eyes shut and lips parted, and not for the first time, Gamora marvels over how amazing he looks like this, exhausted and spent and satisfied.

She tells him as much, too, and when he lets out a small, pleased sound, something close to a mewl, she smiles.

Gamora grabs hold of one of the rope knots and slides her arm beneath Peter’s shoulders. As exhausted as he is and with the way his arms are still bound behind his back, she knows sitting up is a tall order for him. Rather than making him struggle, she hauls him up instead, letting him slump against her front as she reaches around him to works at the knots. He nuzzles against the crook of her neck, lazily and clumsily kissing her shoulder, and she murmurs approvingly.

Carefully, she unwinds the rope, bit by bit, frowning a little at the raw, red marks his struggling has rubbed into his skin. It doesn’t take too long to free him, thankfully, and when she unties the final knot, unraveling the rope, Peter’s arms fall to his sides. He quietly groans with relief, and Gamora massages his shoulders, his biceps, his hands, his entire body, until he melts entirely against her.

Gently, she lays him back down on the bed, stretching out beside him as slowly regains his senses. In these long moments, she keeps touching him, murmuring quietly. When he’s crawling out of that strange fog, she’s learned that it’s best to ease the transition with words of reassurance, with kind touches. She rests her palm against his sternum, watching the rise and fall of his chest, feeling the calming of his heartbeat.

After a while, Peter blinks at her, as if waking from a dream. He smiles a little lazily.

“Hey,” he croaks.

“Hey,” she echoes, brushing his hair away from her forehead. 

“That was...” He struggles for a few seconds – and this, too, is common after he crawls out of his fog, where he had difficulty finding the proper words to express himself. It’s why Gamora is hardly surprised when Peter finally settles on, “Holy shit.”

Offering him a pleased smile, she runs her fingertips along the line of his jaw.

He licks his lips again, and she can see the gears turning in his head as he carefully selects his words. Gamora waits patiently, just tracing his cheek, letting him find his own way without trying to hurry him.

“You were...” he frowns again, chewing on his lip. Then, in a rush, “You were nicer than I expected.”

This time, Gamora mirrors his frown.

Before she can respond, however, he props himself up on an elbow. “I mean, not that you’re not nice. It’s just, after— after what happened today, I thought—”

Peter cuts himself off, still having trouble with how to express himself. Gamora slowly sits up, studying him.

“You expected me to be more harsh,” she supplies.

He hesitates for a breath before slowly nodding. “Yeah. I just... I figured... after today...”

When his face darkens and he ducks his head, it takes her a second to recognize the expression. She had seen it earlier in the evening – the same look that had crossed his face as he weathered Parloy’s tirade. 

Guilt.

_Ah,_ she thinks, feeling a wave of disgust for Parloy all over again.

She swallows it down, reaching over to cup Peter’s jaw. She says, “That wasn’t your fault.”

He makes a scoffing noise, trying to turn away, but Gamora pulls his face toward her again.

“That wasn’t your fault,” she repeats firmly. “If anyone is at fault, it’s Parloy. They provided us poor information and refused to take responsibility for it. I suspect they were setting us up for failure.”

Peter, however, seems unconvinced, and he bows his head.

“Peter,” she says, and though his gaze briefly darts up to her face, he doesn’t look at her. “When have you known me to withhold criticism?”

He snorts out a quiet laugh. “Like, basically never,” he says.

She nods. “And don’t you think if our assignment had actually been your fault, I would have said as much?”

He takes a breath to answer, but when he realizes that he’s about to prove her point, he sighs, shoulders sagging. Even without a response, Gamora knows she’s won this particular argument, and she nods again, satisfied. 

“You did what you could, Peter,” she says. “You made the right decision to retreat.”

This time, when he glances up, he looks a little relieved, a little hopeful. Gamora hesitates for a second, curling both hands over his cheeks.

“I’m proud of you,” she says, and his face flushes.

For a long while, Peter is struck speechless, but he seems to regain his senses quickly, making a show of batting her hands away. 

“Oh my god,” he grouses. “I can’t believe you said that. _Gross._ ”

Gamora rolls his eyes, but she lets him pull away, dropping her hands to her lap. Peter scrubs at his face, but his embarrassment and pleasure is all too obvious. The latter seems to win out, in the end, and she sees it when he finally meets her gaze, his cheeks still red and a tentative smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Thanks,” he says softly.

She reaches over, carding her fingers through his hair.

“Any time,” she says. She swallows down her own embarrassment when she purrs, “ _Star-Lord._ ”

The giant, startled grin that splits Peter’s face makes her chest tighten with affection.


End file.
